Goodfellowe MP (14 page)

‘She only has to ask someone,’ Mr Frunz commented. ‘It’s the only hall for miles.’

‘Give her another five minutes,’ Miss Jardine offered optimistically.

So they had given her five minutes. Then another
five. Slowly, as they waited, the atmosphere began to drain away, the sense of fun and adventure turning to mild irritability. She wasn’t going to turn up.

Mrs Manley-Peys drew back thin, irritated lips. ‘Such a pity. Can’t seem to rely on anybody nowadays. Thank goodness we didn’t pay her in advance.’ She pondered over the biscuit tin in which their evening subs had been placed. ‘I suppose we’d better give everyone their money back.’

Expressions of disappointment came from all sides. They wanted the evening and the adventure of drawing, not their meagre subs returned.

‘Mrs Manley-Peys, how much do we pay the model?’ Sam enquired.

‘Quite generously, I think, in the circumstances. I know it can get a little draughty at times, but most of the models seem to truly enjoy it. Find it relaxing, almost therapeutic.’

‘Yes, but – how much?’

‘Twenty. Ten pounds for each hour. This is such a disappointment,’ she continued. ‘One or two evenings like this and you find club members beginning to drift away. Do you think she’s had a breakdown or something?’

But Sam was no longer listening. Ten pounds an hour was almost four times as much as she was paid for sweating the evenings away at her local pizzeria. Twenty represented an entire weekend’s income. It was a world of confusing values. And she had the trip to France coming up for which she knew her father would give her no pocket money.

‘We’ve still got to pay for the hall,’ Mr Frunz was
complaining, examining the biscuit tin. ‘A complete waste.’

‘No it’s not,’ Sam interrupted.

‘You want us to draw thin air, young lady?’

‘No need, Mr Frunz, you can draw me. I’ll be the model tonight.’

The Easter recess spent at his home in Marshwood had been unnaturally quiet for Goodfellowe. No Sam. That meant no quarrels and brooding silences, to be sure, but also no opportunity to indulge in quiet moments of parental pride which made the pain worthwhile. He even lacked the customary contact with Beryl, something for which he shed no tears, but it caused him to wonder if she were up to something. She usually was.

He rattled irrelevantly around the empty family home, during the day taking advantage of the clement weather to hack his way through the wildlife park that once had been his country garden – a pointless exercise, but it was good for the soul – and during the long evenings attempting to drown the emptiness by rereading favourite novels and turning the stereo volume up so that the windows rattled. It didn’t work, Mahler, Mozart, not even Manilow. As the light began to fade so did his mood of stoicism, soon to be undermined by alcohol. Self-pity began to take hold. Nights stretched before him like an empty desert where sleep was as elusive as rain, and he began to fear their arrival, knowing that being left on his own in the company of his emotions was dangerous. On Easter Day itself he found himself in
Sammy’s room trying to make contact, to find some anchor for his feelings. He sat on the end of her bed with its familiar coverlet, surrounded by the posters of dolphins and pop stars that littered the walls and the cuddly toys crowding along the shelves, imagining he was telling her a bedtime story. He even started reading the first few lines of
Black Beauty
, out loud, before he choked.
Black Beauty
was six – no, eight years ago, a time of innocence. Before their world fell apart. The radio alarm stood blinking in rebuke on the bedside table; it hadn’t been reset in months, not since the last power cut. Sammy wasn’t here. He wasn’t making contact, only trawling through times past and lost like some hapless archaeologist. Tears fell – he’d rediscovered the need for crying – until they gathered on the tip of his chin and, drop by gentle drop, spattered across the pages of her book.

He returned to London two days early, drawn not only by the welcome distraction of Gerrard Street’s all-night noise but also, he had to admit privately, by the opportunity of seeing Elizabeth again. He was angry about Elizabeth. There was no place in his life for another woman, but nevertheless one had arrived. At a time when he was desperate to bring a semblance of order to his existence he’d succeeded only in adding a further element of confusion. It didn’t help that he was drinking too much, although he was still sufficiently clear-sighted to realize that his circumstances made him an ideal candidate for election as a parliamentary drunk. It couldn’t be long, he knew, before he would watch the pity that he still
found in some colleagues’ eyes turn to derision and contempt. He was too proud for that. Something had to be done.

He rose on the morning that Parliament was due to reconvene with a tongue as tough as a lizard and tasting as though it had been basted in bat oil. Two bottles of cheap Aussie Shiraz could do that and still leave enough to drive that hammer inside his skull. Bloody idiot. He knew he needed help. And perhaps a little punishment. Time to sort himself out, to beat his life back into shape.

The concept both of punishment and of beating his life back into shape made him think of Dr Lin. The doctor was a practitioner of the art of Tui-Na or deep manipulation, less a massage than a medicinal assault upon the bones and internal organs of the body which, on the one previous occasion Goodfellowe had tried it, left him aware that there were several parts of his anatomy with which he had simply lost touch. Lin had found the slumbering muscles and systems of the Goodfellowe physique and woken them in a manner which left them complaining for days, yet which Goodfellowe had found eminently reassuring. They were still there … Good-fellowe had reached that point of maturity which passed as middle age in anyone else’s dictionary, where seeds of doubt about his physical competence had begun to germinate – his stamina, his speed, his waistline, even his virility, he questioned them all. He hadn’t been to bed with a woman for four years and voices began to insinuate that even if the opportunity arose, little else might. Such self-doubt is
demeaning, corrosive in a man, but the gremlins had been confronted and put to stinging flight by Dr Lin’s beaming pork-pie face and the meat-cleaving hands that had worked their way from the tips of each individual toe to the very top of his scalp, prodding, bending, guiding, re-educating. And, once the dull ache had dispersed, it had proved undoubtedly reinvigorating. He needed more. Forty minutes later he was lying on the good doctor’s treatment couch, stripped to his underpants, regarding the doctor with trepidation.

‘Good morning, Minister,’ Jya-Yu’s cheery voice rang out. Lin spoke not a word of English and Jya-Yu acted as his interpreter in the treatment room. ‘Doctor say you tense today. Need good stretching.’

The rack again. Goodfellowe winced as he was seized by the leg which proceeded to perform an arc in the air over his shoulder.

‘Doctor ask if you feel pain. If you do, he be very gentle with you.’

Goodfellowe did not respond. He deserved a little punishment. It didn’t stop the guilt, but it certainly distracted from it. Anyway, his underpants were slipping and for the moment he was more concerned with rescuing his dignity before Jya-Yu.

‘Doctor say your liver very hot. You drink too much.’ It was a statement of fact, not a criticism. The Chinese, Goodfellowe was discovering, were remarkably uncensorious. Was that why there were so few Chinese editors? ‘And your shoes too tight. Make bad bowels.’

‘How can he tell I’m constipated simply by
twiddling my toes? And how does he hope to cure it by tying knots in my legs?’

‘Chinese medicine does not deal with single parts of body,’ Jya-Yu explained as a bone cracked in his hip, ‘but at whole system. Look at things all round about, not just little bit at a time.’

Dr Lin’s enormous hands were rushing up and down his backbone like a terrier in search of rabbits. The doctor was beginning to perspire with his exertions, turning his small white cap a fraction every few minutes to wipe his brow.

‘For example,’ continued Jya-Yu, ‘Doctor have strange lady in last week. She complain that she live in house full of greenfly, and greenfly were burrowing under her skin, giving her terrible itching.’

‘Sounds a little peculiar,’ Goodfellowe muttered through tightly clenched teeth. The terrier seemed to have found an entire warren of rabbits hiding beneath his deltoids and was determined to dig every last one of them out.

‘She say she go to three Western doctors, all of who say same thing. She need psychiatrist. Mental case. But Doctor Lin ask her if anyone else live in same house and have same problems with greenfly. She say no. So doctor say it cannot be greenfly. Then he start asking other questions. You know what he find?’

Goodfellowe gasped, rendered hoarse by reason of the armlock which the doctor had placed around his neck.

‘She your age,’ Jya-Yu continued, ‘have women problems. Hormone changes. Menopause. Make her
skin very itch-itch-itch. Not mental at all. She need only a few pills and Bob is your honoured uncle. You see, very important to look at things all round about.’ Her performance over, she gave a little bow.

In spite of himself, Goodfellowe laughed. He was beginning to feel better now, more relaxed. The head was clear, the Yin had made contact with his Yang, his chest seemed to have filled out to twice its normal size and both oxygen and optimism were forcing their way back through the system. He felt sure the burning sensation cascading down his legs would disappear eventually.

‘Doctor say you very fit. For your age.’

Lin slapped him cheerfully; it hurt. He decided to take it as a compliment. Looking at things all round about, the good doctor had pronounced him fit to do battle. He felt better, standing straight, re-enthused. A warrior in St Michael’s underwear.

Outside the surgery the real world was lying in wait for him. As he spilled out onto the street he was greeted by a newspaper billboard. ‘Granite Expansion Plan’ it proclaimed. The
Evening Herald
was filled with coverage of Freddy Corsa’s latest corporate pronouncements, overflowing with phrases such as ‘dramatic new strategy for growth’, ‘challenging environment ushered in on the back of the Press Bill’ and ‘extensive new financial support in the pipeline’. There was reference to new investment partners, although Goodfellowe noted that no names were mentioned. The edition also contained a profile of Freddy Corsa which, even by the normal standards of proprietor hagiography, was unusually effusive,
emphasizing his strong family and charitable commitments even as he moved to fulfil his ambition to place Granite amongst the largest companies in its sector, while the
Herald’s
diarist nominated him as one of the country’s most exciting young entrepreneurs. The Stop Press carried the announcement that the Granite share price had risen in response, on the basis of which the new City Editor had, entirely without announcement, ordered himself a new sports car.

Less prominent, indeed entombed in the detail of an inside financial page, was the statement that in order to prepare for this great leap forward Granite was undertaking yet another review of its internal systems and manning levels – ‘to ensure the company is in the leanest and fittest possible shape for the opportunities ahead’. Gain through pain.

Goodfellowe read it all. The explanations. The analysis. The veneration of Freddy Corsa. His new friend. A man on the move.

In spite of his odiously pinching shoes, Goodfellowe found a new spring in his step. Lin’s muscle medicine had worked and he could feel the sun on his back warming his spirits. It was time for a new beginning, time to find a new way ahead. Perhaps the many fragments of his life could be made to fit together after all. As he kicked at pigeons in Trafalgar Square he took several decisions. He resolved to telephone Sam in France for no other reason than to let her know he hoped she was having a wonderful time. He would book dinner tonight at The Kremlin – but only half a bottle. And he would drop a note to
Freddy Corsa to offer warmest congratulations – and his own services as Fleet Street’s newest occasional columnist.

Tom Goodfellowe, he decided, and with only the slightest limp, was back in business.

For many, the House of Commons is a jungle inhabited by Great Beasts, and even occasionally by a Great She Elephant. This jungle is one of the noisiest places on the planet. The Great Beasts spend much of their time crashing through the undergrowth, guarding their territory jealously and ensuring that the other animals are aware of their presence by releasing terrifying roars in an attempt to induce fear and submissiveness. Confrontations are frequent, accompanied by theatrical and skilfully choreographed displays of aggression, but while all this activity might result in the trampling of a few small trees and shrubs only rarely does it draw blood. A sham. However, it’s a great show for tourists.

In the jungle there are few Great Beasts. Most of the animals are less formidable, mere ground squirrels who find safety in burrows, popping up only briefly to see what all the noise is about before disappearing once more, or chattering marmosets who gather in the treetops to gossip and throw the occasional nut of protest at the back of a passing Great Beast. The nut-throwing rarely has the slightest effect, in spite of the fact that from a treetop a marmoset can sometimes see much farther than any Great Beast.

The treetops of the parliamentary jungle are to
be found in the formal rooms which divide off the Committee Corridor, a long and richly panelled passage that runs along the riverside flank of the Palace of Westminster. While the Great Beasts fight out their battles on the floor of the Chamber, it is up in Standing Committee that much of the real work of Parliament is performed, scrutinizing new legislation and examining every line of a Bill for any inadvertent intent or casual prejudice that may have been woven into the text by the parliamentary draftsmen. From the Committee Corridor the view can be much clearer, less obscured by the clouds of dust which rise from the strainings of Great Beasts below. Committees can offer reasoned advice, encourage second thoughts, even suggest new ideas – although more often than not the Great Beasts are making too much noise to hear.

It was from this vantage point, shortly after Parliament had resumed from its Easter recess, that Goodfellowe found himself amongst twenty-four other Members in Committee Room 10, a substantial room of Pugin wall coverings and towering ceilings, where he had been summoned by Lillicrap to do his duty in the passage of the Press (Diversity of Ownership) Bill. The Committee Room was laid out on three sides with chairs and desks; the Chairman and his officers at the head, Government forces on his right, Opposition to the left, and the public scattered to the rear of the room. Goodfellowe sat in the last of three rows of seats allocated to the Government while Lillicrap, in the manner of an eager collie, sat guarding his flock from his position on the front row. The work of
the Standing Committee, any Standing Committee, though often intriguing, is rarely enthralling and although to the distant eye Goodfellowe appeared to be busily engaged in studying Committee papers, in fact like many of the other Members present he was surrounded by constituency correspondence. There seemed little in the detail of Clause 2 Subsection 8 to engage him, so he occupied the time between votes in tasks such as signing letters and trying to fathom how he would cope with an engagements diary that resembled Bombay railway station in the monsoon season. Rush, crush, cancellations, unexpected alterations, a schedule bordering on chaos, but where did it all get him? There seemed to be precious few departures. And looming ahead were preparations for the next election, whenever that might come, which meant interminable evenings closeted with Beryl. For a moment he considered throwing himself on the tracks.